


Burn

by HouseofMacbeth



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (1990s Movies), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Rating for Language, reference to canonical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23776450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HouseofMacbeth/pseuds/HouseofMacbeth
Summary: “Ever since they had fled New York with sirens and her life ablaze at their backs it had been the same dream.”
Relationships: Raphael (TMNT)/April O’Neil
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	Burn

The fire burned all around her. The flames licked up the walls, hungry, consuming year after year of memories, sometimes decades at a time. They swallowed generations in a blink like an angry god consumes its petulant child. She felt the sizzle along her arms and the back of her neck, singing her hair. She felt it on her face, making her skin feel tight, like she wore her own death mask.  


But at the heart of the fire where she lay, the most disturbing sensation was the cold. It emanated up from the body she curled herself around, as cool and still as the grave.  


Chaos wound itself in tight tornados around her, spinning so fast she couldn’t tell the direction. She was stuck in the eye of it, glued to the ground, to the body who had mere moments ago housed a fire that could rival that of the inferno that threatened to consume them all.  


She felt it, the moment the fire inside him had gone out. She felt it in some unnamable place she was sure only existed to be broken. He was gone. He was gone and all she could do was hold him and scream. But the smoke was too thick, the fire too hot, and the moment she opened her mouth it came for her. It slid across her shoulders and around her neck, clawing its way into her mouth and down into her lungs…  


And she wakes with a strangled shout.  


Every bit of exposed skin is clammy with terror, and she thanks whoever is listening that no one had come looking for the guttural bleat of fear she had unwillingly let loose into the still, musky air of the old farmhouse. It was a testament to how exhausted their motley crew was that she remained alone in the master bedroom.  


She takes a few moments to compose herself. It’s a struggle every time, despite the fact that she had awoken the same way the night before, and the night before that. 

Ever since they had fled New York with sirens and her life ablaze at their backs it had been the same dream.  


And as she did every night after waking in terror, she breathes deeply, wipes the remnants of tears from her eyes, and gets out of bed.  


She pads down the hall as silently as the old floorboards allow, stopping just outside the door that is always left open. She knocks gently on the frame, as she always did, and waits for the watchman to acknowledge her presence. She touches him gently on the shoulder as she passes, kneeling in her spot beside the great clawfoot tub.  


He hasn’t moved. Not an inch since they had laid him there. His breathing is shallow, but consistent, and it brings her small comfort.  


It’s hard at night to hold back her emotions, but she knows she has to be strong for them. Somehow she’s become the adult in all of this, and it’s a crown that weighs heavy on her head. But she bears it willingly, doing her best to take care of them. In the span of a few short days, suddenly all they have is each other.  


The water in the tub has started to cool, and she rises to her feet, taking a small washcloth with her. She runs it under the tap, willing the water to heat in the old pipes. 

They protest with a whine that she mentally hushes, and brings the warm, wringed cloth back to the unconscious body in the tub.  


She runs the cloth along his exposed limbs, wondering, not for the first time, if it does anything to help. She feels stupid and ignorant, not knowing anything about his physiology. She doesn’t know how to truly help, and this little act of nursemaid seems to be more for her than him.  


She feels tears in her throat before her eyes, and she lets out a wet sigh that threatens to turn into a sob.  


“He’ll be ok,” comes the response, right on time, same as always, and April knows that all she can do is go back to bed and wait until Leonardo reassures her again tomorrow.

-

The day Raphael wakes up is otherwise uneventful. Donatello had been working on the truck with Casey, insulting each other alphabetically, while Michelangelo poked around the house and the grounds, looking for something, anything, to occupy his racing mind.  


The moment Leonardo called down from the bathroom, everyone dropped everything.  


As she watches the two brothers embrace, happier than she has been since the boys first invited themselves into her home for frozen pizza and bad impressions, a surprising ache settles into April’s stomach.  


Donatello cracks wise at her side, relieving some of the tension, but there is a large part of her that longs to go to him, to Raphael, and wrap her arms around him. She had been afraid; so, so afraid that he would not come back to them. To her.  


It’s selfish. She knows it isn’t her place. This was a time for the brothers to reconnect and mend their wounds, both in the literal sense and not.  


But it doesn’t stop her from wanting.

-

It’s late in the evening when she finally catches him alone. Leonardo had hovered all day until Raphael had lovingly, but firmly, told him to Go Away, and mother hen one of their other brothers for a while. Perhaps sensing that this was Raphael starting to return to form, Leonardo relented and wandered off to badger Michelangelo and Donatello into sparring.  


She rounds the corner into the kitchen just as he’s reaching for a teapot on one of the top shelves. She registers his wince as he stretches and just manages to catch the old ceramic pot before it shatters on the ground.  


“Shit!” He exclaims, and curls an arm around his side, squeezing his eyes tight.  


“Hey,” she hears herself say. She sets the pot on the counter and finally gives into the urge to touch. She lets her fingers graze over the bicep where his arm is curled, her other hand going to his injured side.  


“Goddamn fffffuckin’ Foot,” he grits through clenched teeth.  


Without saying another word, she pushes him into the comfiest chair at the dining table and fills the kettle with water to boil. She putters around, more to do something with her hands that isn’t touching him than for any other reason. She selects a gentle green tea. It’s far from the fine teas one might find in a proper Japanese holmstead, but it was as close as she could manage.  


Raphael is silent after his outburst, and she can feel his eyes on her back as she picks through the cupboards, searching for something to eat that Michelangelo hasn’t yet devoured.  


There, on the top shelf, undoubtedly out of his reach is a small box of butter cookies, still blissfully sealed against the rot of time.  


She pulls them down just as the kettle begins to sing its song and she places the pot of tea and a plate of cookies in front of her quiet companion.  


“You’ll take the master bedroom tonight,” she says, taking a biscuit and nudging the plate closer to him.  


His mouth drops in surprise and she can tell a protest is about to burst forth in all its indignant New Yorker glory, but she halts him with a hand up.  


“No. No arguing. You’re still healing,” at this he drops his hand from his side, having forgotten it there, “and I’ll be damned if you’re gonna make it worse by sleeping on the damn floor. And I’m sure as hell never gonna let you get back in that goddamn bathtub.”  


Her voice cracks on the last word and to her absolute horror, she realizes she’s crying.  


“Shit,” she whispers and gets up with a noisy protest from her chair. She turns away from him, mortified, and digs the heels of her hands into her eyes, willing them to stop their steady leak.  


“April…”  


“They put you through my goddamn skylight, Raphael. I thought you were dead. I thought… I thought those bastards had beaten you to death right over top of me. And all I could do was hold onto you. Through the fight, even when we fell through the floor I held on, but you were so cold, and I thought…”  


The warm, thick hand that grips her wrist startles her to action and she turns and finally gives in to the urge she had felt upon his waking. She falls to her knees at the foot of the chair where he’s still seated and wraps her long arms around his stocky frame. She cries into his shoulder, trying hard not to squeeze him too tight. She cries for him, and she cries for herself. She cries for the insurmountable losses they’ve both experienced in the span of a few short days. She cries because she nearly lost someone she can no longer imagine her life without.  


Raphael is still for a long time, as if he’s afraid to touch her. But eventually a hand lands gently at her back, thumb moving slow and gentle, grazing the edges of her hair.  


“I’m ok,” he whispers against her hair. “You’re ok. I’m sorry. Leo told me about the fire. I’m so sorry, April.”  


She sniffles, a disgusting wet noise, and pulls back, wiping her eyes. She feels depleted, but lighter somehow.  


She dares to look him in the eye and her heart breaks anew. Raphael looks wrecked. She’s never seen him look so open and upset and adrift. She dares to run a hand across his cheek. His breath stutters and he drops his eyes, even as he puts a hand over hers.  


“It’s not your fault. None of it is. You’re here and I’m here and we’re safe and alive and we’re gonna get Splinter back. That’s all that matters.”  


Before she can stop herself, she leans in and kisses his other cheek. She feels his gasp as much as hears it, and she’s suddenly afraid she’s overstepped terribly. But just as she is about to pull back and blurt an awkward apology, he turns his head ever so slightly, so that his mouth grazes her palm.  


A warmth spreads through her like liquid metal and her head swims. She pulls back from him, slowly, and goddamn her, her thumb slides across the edge of his mouth.  


“It’s settled then,” she says when she comes back to herself, “you’ll take the master bedroom and get a good night’s sleep. I can handle a couch for a few nights.” She pours the by now over-steeped tea into two cups and nods her head to herself before looking back at Raphael.  


He stares at her with a strange expression, one she can’t place, but he nods all the same.  


“Good.”

-

When the time for sleep comes, April heads for the master with an armload of the freshest sheets she can find. She pulls apart the bed and remakes it, tight and neat, willing the old mattress to be kind to Raphael’s beaten body. As she spreads the sheets smooth with her palm, her mind drifts back to the feel of a parted mouth against it.  


She shivers despite herself.  


“You sure you’re ok with this?”  


She stops just short of yelping at the sudden presence.  


“Shit! Sorry, sorry…” Raphael has the good sense to look sheepish where he stands in the open doorway.  


“I hate when you guys do that,” she sighs when she catches her breath.  


Raphael’s mouth transforms into a shit-eating grin. “Ninja,” he says, simply pointing at himself.  


April rolls her eyes in response.  


“The bed is all set. There are more linens and blankets in the closet across the hall if you need them. I’ll just be down the hall in the old study. Fair warning, Casey has the room next to you and he snores like a bear. If you decide to smother him in his sleep with a pillow, no jury will convict you.”  


She turns to leave and gets about one foot out the door when Raphael stops her with a touch at her wrist. She tampers down a shiver.  


“There’s no couch in the study,” he says and she mentally slaps herself. Of course he’s explored the house.  


“There’s a big reading chair and plenty of blankets,” she says gently, turning to face him. Which ends up being a terrible idea, because he’s wearing that expression again, the one she can’t name, and his mouth works, but no sounds come out.  


“I’ll be ok, Raph,” she murmurs, “Get some sleep.” And she squeezes his hand and leaves before she can do something stupid.  


Like kiss him again.

-

She dreams of fire.  


The antique store burns around her. Her apartment above. And in her arms, Raphael is dying.  


His eyes are open, and he’s staring at her. She tries to speak, but no noise comes out. He watches her, unblinking, and raises a hand to her cheek. She closes her eyes, anticipating the touch, but it never comes. Just the hollow thud of a lifeless arm hitting the floor.  


April wakes up with a start. Before the fog fully lifts she’s on her feet and down the hall, tears running down her cheeks as she pants towards the door at the end.  


She throws it open so hard it bounces and the noise rings loud in the empty room.  


There is no one in the tub.  


She falls to her knees and cries. She cradles her face in her hands and tries to collect herself, but the calm won’t come.  


It’s not until she hears the creak of a floorboard that she feels she’s able to breathe.  


He’d made the sound on purpose, so as not to startle her, and it’s so sweet and strange that it almost threatens to choke her.  


Raphael leans down and wraps his hands around her arms, pulling her to her feet. He leads her towards the master bedroom as she wipes angrily at her eyes, feeling worn out and vulnerable.  


The door is still open, and light slashes softly across the mussed bed. He gently leads her to one side and sits her down, pressing at her shoulder until she lies down. He pulls the blanket up and over her and pauses, hands open and still.  


“I had a nightmare,” she whispers into the dark room.  


“I know,” he says, and his hand finds her hair, smoothing it out of her eyes. “So did I.”  


When he pulls his hand away, a sharp stab of fear cuts through her.  


“Will you stay?”  


It comes out in a rush, too loud in the moonlit room.  


There’s a pause, its weight compressing her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs.  


“I don’t know if I’ll fit,” he says finally, so, so quiet. He’s not looking at her.  


“You will,” she whispers back, “I’ll make room.”  


She reaches out in the darkness and finds his hand again, pulling gently towards her. There’s a half-beat of resistance, of trepidation, and then he caves, moving towards her and the bed. She shifts to one side and lifts the covers for him, trying to ignore the thump of her heart, fearing the echo of it in the old room.  


He climbs in, and the bed creaks, causing him to cuss under his breath. She smiles despite herself. His mass fills two thirds of the bed easily, but it beats the chair and the loneliness and the flames that lick at the edges of her consciousness.  


And he’s here. He’s here and alive and still full of piss and vinegar after everything he’s been through.  


She rolls to her side to look at him once more before sleep takes them.  


She finds him looking right back, his brow knitted ever so slightly, and she reaches to smooth the furrow with her thumb.  


He sighs and closes his eyes, leaning into the touch.  


“Good night Raphael,” she whispers. Her hand drops and she turns slowly, reluctantly, to her other side and tries to settle herself into the old mattress. She can feel him at her back, unnaturally still. Hell, she can practically feel his eyes boring holes into the back of her skull.  


She sighs.  


“It’s ok, Raph,” she whispers, not turning around. “You can relax. Sleep.”  


There’s a pause, and then a slight shift in the mattress. Then there’s a hand ghosting along her side, touch as light as a bird on a wire.  


“Is… is this… ok?”  


The tremulous question slides over her skin like a caress, making the hair on her arms stand upright. He sounds so out of his depth. She’s used to him being so damn cocksure that this vulnerability makes her want to protect him as much as it makes her want to…  


Rather than trust her voice, she reaches back and finds his hand, guiding it silently to her hip. She hears the small intake of breath and tries to control her own as she lets her own hand rest on top of his, letting the weight of them curve around her bare hipbone.  


“Ok…” he mutters, likely more to himself than to her. “Ok.”  


April lets herself smile as she feels him finally settle and closes her eyes.  


She does not dream of fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 30th birthday to my favourite movie of all time.


End file.
